"scuppers" poems
Head exploding
life seems too fast
to find out what I'm thinking
I wonder if my strength
is going to last.
I crawled into bed
with you last night
first time in years
we've been segregated
by my exhaustion
and my fears.
To feel your flesh again
made my headache worth it
but nothing will take away
the ache that I feel
for the love of myself.
Self acceptance is what I need
I'm better than I thought
but the lingering mistrust
of how I'm going to be
scuppers me at every turn.
If I could just relax
on the inside
and let my self be happy
I think I would be happier.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
In the second hand soothing
of darkest address: frost crawls.
Having crept down the alleys
on serpentine silvers
to pilfer the vaults of an Indian Summer,
in crystalline raiment
the malachite pavements
succumb to its covering sprawl.
On shellac returns of lamp delta falls
minutiae maraud in bitter sweet symmetry
shattering petals, encasing in glass
the Stella shot run of the vine.
A glacier tourniquet scuppers the mold
an accomplished assassin of natural device,
with icy indifference it hushes the *****
The Moon, for the life in her eyes.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Answer my own question
swallow my own lie
lay here and die
Get up to pie
and toast
and coffee
Heave a great sigh
settle around
death's discomfort
Riddle me why
we husband these lies
paint 'em so high
they are nigh
to the wind
on scuppers of rye
all out
we cry
lay here don't cry
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 12:17 AM UTC
It floated ashore one pitch black night
We hadn’t seen it before,
All covered in barnacles and scale
Cast up from a distant war,
It gently rolled as the tide came in
And hit the rocks with a ‘clang’,
Then settled down as its scuppers cleared
The decks, all covered in sand.
The conning tower was an evil sight
Its paint was peeling away,
Ribbons of black, as camouflage
Peeled off in the light of day,
And there we could see the ********
Look down with an evil leer,
As once it looked on its victims when
It ruled in a sea of fear.
The storm that had brought it to the shore
Took far too long to abate,
It raged and roared for a week before
We’d take the risk on its plate,
But then we found that the rust had hid
All access into its gloom,
We walked the whole of its length but found
No way to enter the tomb.
There must have been twenty men inside
Or what was left of their bones,
But all I’d hear when the night was clear
Was a chorus of shrieks and moans.
We smashed the hatch in the conning tower
And a sailor ventured in,
We hauled him out in a quarter hour
But his mind was wandering.
I saw some movement deep in the hull
And I called out, ‘Who goes there?’
But then a guttural German voice
Had answered, in despair,
‘Stay well away from the conning tower
It’s a type of evil well,
Once within you are caught in sin
And you’ll find yourself in Hell.’
The sea rose up and covered the rocks
And it floated off the sub,
While all the bones in their shrieks and moans
Screamed ‘Mercy’ - there’s the rub,
They called for mercy they never gave
When they sank each helpless crew,
Now roam forever beneath the waves
In a sub, now sunken too.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
I went crazy
I did feral little dances
I acted in ways most betraying
of my previous social stance
but there were others
a multitude
it was the fault of the moon
we are weak and...
Mr. Moon
The Whey-faced Satellite has drawn deck
of our cowered population
on this full beaming night
this Friday
the anaemic loon quaker
is a menace
it lugs hard on the minds most creative
it moulds imagination and felonious thought
where previous their dwelled only a shopping list
it skims hostile cream from the fragile
and kissed wetter still
the most eager berserker
a dance of madness tups open the houses
pucks at our activities
plucks strings that fire our kinetic clatter
and scuppers any will to resist
Human species take the streets in corrosive numbers
A Party like this
shall make a dent
A Party like this
shall be a fist in Our Story
Hosted by the Moon
here I am
in the mix
prancing like some zany goof
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 8:56 PM UTC
I am a farmer at sea
60 sheep, 100 pigs,
geese and ducks on departure
These are frugal rations
with the stew, army bread and beans
No need to slaughter
The beasts just die
so there is always meat
for the cook and the officers
high above my smelly stable
where I haul in the buckets from the sea
and scrub the **** through the scuppers
In the bunks, it is worse
There is the world of the below deck
of sweat, exhaust gases, and the rasping sick
where you sink asleep in a pit
full of poo and *** gasp for air
and throw up brown tar
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 4:37 AM UTC